by Barbara Bard
Before she realized what happened, he had plucked her from her chair and held her in his lap, permitting her to sob against his shoulder. Humming, he rocked her back and forth as he would a child, holding her in his powerful arms. Snugged up tightly to him, Catrin had no will to fight him, to demand he put her down, to leave her alone.
Instead, despite her hatred of him, she found herself strangely comforted by his soothing humming, his strength, his compassion. Crying herself out on his shoulder, Catrin rested, exhausted both emotionally and physically. Had he tried then to take advantage of her, she could not have fought him off.
He did not. His hand stroked down her hair, over and over, his touch calming her further even as his humming ceased. “It be all right, lass,” he murmured against her head. “I wi’ take guid care ‘o ye, I promise. It be all right.”
Catrin wearily lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Do not make a promise you cannot keep.”
Ranulf smiled, a tender and sweet expression. “I ne’er break a promise, lass.”
His hand brushed her loose hair back from her face, lightly touching her wound. “Might ye permit me tae care fer that? And yer other wounds?”
Catrin nodded. “Yes.”
With the tender care he might show to a small child, and with the same effort, Ranulf stood up with her body in his arms. He set her gently back in her chair, then went to the door. Opening it, he spoke to someone outside, then returned to her.
“Yer maid wi’ bring hot water, cloths and a balm tae soothe yer pain,” he said.
Sitting beside her again, he pulled her hair back and once again closely examined her cut. “I nae think it needs stitched,” he murmured. “But it dae be deep. Where else ye be hurt?”
Unlacing the top of her gown, Catrin pulled the garment aside to show him the gouge and bruising on her shoulder, just under her collar bone. “But that is all I am showing you,” she said. “The others are not nearly as bad, and I can care for them myself.”
Ranulf grinned, sending her a sly wink. “Ach, ye break me heart, lass.”
“Careful I do not break your nose should you attempt to explore further.”
“Nay, I be a gentleman,” he said, catching her sardonic eye. “’O a sorts.”
“Of sorts,” she agreed.
Minutes later, one of her maids returned with a small bucket of steaming water, white cloth cast over her shoulder. Knuckling her brow, she set the water and cloth beside Ranulf, then pulled a small leather jar from her pocket. At his gesture, she quickly retreated, and closed the door behind her.
“This wi’ sting, lass,” Ranulf warned her. “But it must be cleaned.”
“I know.”
Trying not to wince and hiss in pain, Catrin endured Ranulf caring the wound on her brow. Caked and fresh blood came away on the cloth as he cleaned it, then he applied the sweet smelling ointment from the jar. Strangely, the stuff eased her pain as well. Dipping fresh linen into the bucket, he repeated the process on her shoulder injury.
“Do yer other wounds bleed?” he asked as he applied the balm to her collarbone.
Catrin shook her head. “I think they are just bruises.”
He capped the leather jar and set it on a nearby table. “I wi’ leave that fer ye tae put oan them later. It wi’ help the pain.”
“I can already feel it working,” she admitted, lightly touching the rapidly drying stuff on her brow. “It does not hurt as much now. But my head does. It still throbs.”
Ranulf nodded. “I hae just the thing fer that.”
Standing, he walked to the table that held a bottle of wine and cups and poured some into one of them. Taking a bit of paper from his pocket, he held it up to her, meeting her eyes. “This wi’ help yer pain,” he said, “but wi’ make ye sleepy. Dae ye wish me tae continue?”
Catrin nodded. Though the afternoon had not yet waned toward evening, she wanted nothing more than to escape the throbbing in her head, and her tumultuous emotions. “Yes. Please.”
Ranulf opened the paper and slid a small amount of white powder into the cup. Swirling the wine inside to dissolve it, he brought it to her, and sat back down. “Noo drink this, lass. All ‘o it.”
Obedient, Catrin drank the wine, grimacing at the bitter taste. “Thank you,” she murmured, handing him the empty cup.
Smiling a little, Ranulf brushed a tendril of her red-brown hair from her cheek. “Ye be most welcome, lass.”
It did not take long for Catrin to feel woozy. With Ranulf’s help, she made her wobbly way to the bed, and sat down on the edge. Her fingers plucked at her gown’s lacings, though she knew she should not undress while he was still there. Ranulf walked to the door, opened it, then glanced back at her.
“I wi’ send yer maid tae help ye,” he said.
Though she wanted to refuse, shaking her head brought only dizziness. Her tongue felt thick and fuzzy, as though it had been changed by alchemy into a caterpillar, and she could not form words. When she squinted past the black dots swirling behind her eyes, Ranulf was gone. Fumbling with the laces again, she almost decided it was not worth the effort.
Her maid suddenly materialized from seemingly nowhere Catrin could discern, murmuring soft words, and assisted her out of her blood-stained gown. Clad in her kirtle, Catrin crawled under the linens of her bed, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
***
When she woke, her chamber was dark and only the smoldering hearth fire gave out any light. She felt it was late at night, and a quick glance out her window informed her it was past midnight. Though her head still throbbed as she sat up, the pain did not come close to what it had been previously.
Climbing out of bed, Catrin groggily walked to the hearth and added more wood. Blowing up a flame, she lit a taper and set it to the wick of a tallow candle. With light to see by now, she discovered a plate of food on the table. Bread, cold roast beef, cheese and water. Not truly hungry, she nonetheless sat down and ate as much as she could hold. Still feeling unwell, she had no desire to vomit it all back up if she overate.
Pouring herself more wine, she sat in her chair by the window and stared out into the night. Pondering Ranulf’s kindness and consideration in caring for her, Catrin could not help but wonder at his motives. He behaved as though he cared for her, liked her even, yet he could be nothing except her enemy.
Is he truly my enemy? The thought bothered Catrin, for of course she should consider him as nothing less. His brother murdered her own. Had they both been of Scottish birth and upbringing into the Scots code of honor, no doubt a blood feud would have sprung up between them. Yet, he treated her with kindness, with integrity, and with decency. Would her father have given that to him, had their roles been reversed?
No. He would not. Had Ranulf fallen into English hands, she had no doubt at all he would be beaten, tortured, and then ultimately killed. So, who was better – the Scottish or the English? Catrin sighed, drinking her wine, and knew such questions had no true answer. People on both sides of the border had the capabilities of being equally cruel or equally kind.
The heady wine made her sleepy again. Rising, she moistened her fingertips and doused the candle, then climbed back into her bed. The new moon gleamed through the window, illuminating her room with its almost mystical light. She tried watching it for as long as she could until her eyelids drooped, and she slept again.
She woke again with Ranulf himself, not her maid, clumsily entering her chamber with a tray filled with food and cups. He grinned as he discovered her still in bed. Catrin covered herself with the bed linens, scowling at his amusement and his presence.
“Perhaps I might joon ye in there, lass,” he said, his hazel-green eyes glinting with a lewd gleam. “Hae a wee bit ‘o fun afore breakfast.”
“No,” she snapped. “If you plan to eat all that with me, then leave my room while I get dressed.”
Setting the tray on the table, Ranulf grinned, and offered her a mocking bow. “As me lady commands.”
&nb
sp; Making sure he was gone and not planning to pop back in the moment she left the concealment of her sheets, Catrin emerged cautiously. Though her head and other bruises still pained her, her long hours sleeping seemed to have helped considerably. Without a maid to help her, she donned a clean gown over her kirtle, and laced it up the front with easy freedom of movement.
“You can come in now,” she called.
Ranulf opened the door and entered her chambers again. “I wi’ send tae the merchant in the village and purchase the cloth ye fancied,” he said, helping her to sit at the table.
Catrin eyed him and the lavish amount of food both. “So, your men told you what I was interested in?”
“Lavender, eh?”
Catrin nodded. “Your people tell you everything.”
Though she found it odd, the clan laird and ruler of this part of the Highlands serving her, she discovered she liked it. Used to being waited upon hand and foot by servants, she never considered that a nobleman might choose to serve another at the table. Yet, for Ranulf to do so, it seemed – natural.
“Aye,” he replied, pouring her both cold water and warmed ale in cups. “It dae help me tae ken whet be goin’ on in me lands.”
“Are you going to punish the villagers?”
Catrin bit into a hunk of black bread and butter, watching him carefully.
Ranulf paused to glance at her as though giving her question serious consideration. “Dae ye wish me tae?”
Caught off guard that he turned the tables back on her, she reacted simply and honestly. She shook her head. “No. They were awful, but they reacted the way I suppose an English village might if you walked into it.”
“Ye be a wise as well as beautiful lass,” he said, sitting down opposite her. “They be simple folk. Scots be at war wi’ the Sassenach fer too many years fer auld hatreds tae die away.”
“I suppose that is true.”
They broke their fast in companionable silence, one which Catrin felt reluctant to break. Ranulf was her enemy, yet no enemy she ever heard of treated a captured prisoner the way Ranulf treated her. But how and when would his vengeance strike? While remaining in his castle and being treated as someone of her station should be treated, she knew she lived only at his sufferance.
“If ye be feelin’ up tae it,” Ranulf said, his mouth full. “Hae aboot we take some bows and arrows and see whet kind ‘o archer ye are.”
Catrin grinned, swallowing her cheese and chased it with a long swallow of her ale. “Are you willing to make any wagers on my skills?”
“Noo whet ye be wantin’? Ootside ‘o wantin’ tae go home.”
Catrin pondered for a moment. What do I want? “If I win, I want your best horse as my own.”
Ranulf’s eyes widened and he all but choked on his mouthful of bread. “Whet? Ach, nay, lass, I nae wager me stallion. Nae fer a hundred lasses.”
“All right. If I win, you let me ride him.”
“Ye hae a death wish? That lad be a mean bugger. Only I can ride him.”
“If I win at archery,” Catrin said, her tone sly, “and I ride your mean bugger, successfully, then what do I get?”
“Ye mean if ye nae dead?”
“Yes. If I am not dead.”
Ranulf pondered. “If ye win at archery, and ride me bugger, then I gae ye a diamond necklace. Deal?”
Catrin spat on her hand and held it out. “Deal.”
Chapter 9
It appeared word leaked out, possibly from one of Catrin’s maids listening at the door, of the upcoming contest. By the time Ranulf and Catrin emerged from the castle and into the bailey, a considerable crowd had gathered. They each carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and both gaped as men at arms, servants, yeomen and a number of merchants filled the place.
“I am going to guess you have ears in your walls,” Catrin muttered.
“I expect I dae.”
At his order, men ran into the barns to quickly stuff hay and straw into sacks to create man shaped targets. After painting crude circles for a bullseye, they stacked them against the bailey’s stone wall. Ranulf tested the pull on his bow, and eyed Catrin sidelong as she did the same. With the bow as tall as she was, he expected that she would be unable to pull it at all.
Stunned, he watched as she not only tested it by pulling it all the way back, but nocked an arrow to the string, drew the string to her ear and released the arrow in one smooth action. Whipping his head to the straw dummies, he saw the arrow sticking from the exact center of the bullseye.
“I dae think I be in trouble ‘ere.”
Catrin smiled sweetly. “Your turn.”
Shaking his head, Ranulf nocked his arrow and pulled the string to his ear. Concentrating, he focused on the target and released. His arrow sank into the sacking, quivering, next to Catrin’s. He grinned.
“Can ye beat that?”
“Watch me.”
Nocking her arrow, Catrin closed her left eye, sighted down the arrow, and released. The arrow flew true from her bow and split his right down the middle. Like a heavy wind across the heather, moans of awe and shock rippled across the bailey. Ranulf himself stared, gaping, his jaw hanging loose.
Catrin’s hand under his chin snapped it closed. “Well?”
He scowled. “Hae aboot we back up a hundred paces, ye bloody show oof.”
Catrin simpered. “Why, I would be delighted.”
The crowd, large to begin with, increased as the two combatants backed up to make the challenge more difficult. A groom pulled the arrows from the sacks and bolted out of range as Ranulf nocked another arrow. It plunged deep into the heart of the circle, the exact center, causing the crowd around them to grow wild with applause and cheering.
Catrin nodded, nocking an arrow to her bowstring. “Impressive. Now try not to swoon, sweet meat.”
“Me swoon? Nay, that be ye when I win – .”
Almost before he finished speaking, Ranulf watched in amazement as she lifted the bow, sighted and released all within a single move. He swore she did not even take the time to sight properly. His moment of elation dropped the instant he glanced at the target.
The crowd went silent.
His arrow once again had been split down the center by hers.
“I feel faint,” he muttered.
“Of course you do,” she cooed. “Shall we back up another hundred paces?”
Ranulf gazed around at the watching eyes, the expectant crowd, knowing that they willed him to win over the Sassenach wench. He shook his head. “I hae nae doubt ye wi’ win that round, too.”
Raising his voice, he bellowed to the watching grooms. “Saddle me bugger.”
Grinning, Catrin caressed her throat. “Why, I can feel that diamond necklace around my neck already.”
“Ye hae nae earned it, Me Lady,” he replied sternly. “Noo ye jump off if ye get into trouble wi’ him. He be dangerous.”
“So am I.”
Unable to halt himself, Ranulf guffawed. “Ye be dangerous, that I ken. The most dangerous lass I ever met.”
It took the grooms nearly twenty minutes to bring out the glossy black stallion. Ranulf heard Catrin suck in her breath at the sight of him, watching the horse through her eyes. He was magnificent, even to himself, and he raised the beast from a scrawny weanling, broke him to ride, and handled him for breeding. The stud tried to rear, his front hooves slashing at the nearest groom, who ducked at the last second, cursing.
“Noo ye sure aboot this?”
Catrin sent him a withering glare. “If you can ride him, I am quite certain I shall have no problem.”
Ranulf rolled his eyes and walked with her to the horse. The stud stomped in a circle, his huge, rounded muscles bunching under his sleek hide. Lowering his head, he kicked backward, and it was pure luck that no one stood behind him. Lifting his head, he whinnied a long ringing challenge that echoed throughout the baily.
Catrin watched him for a few moments, then nodded to Ranulf. Bending at the stallion’s shoulder, h
e made a stirrup with his laced fingers. When Catrin put her left foot into it, he tossed her up into the saddle. Instantly, the stallion tried to buck, but she gathered his reins while inserting her feet into the swinging stirrups at the same time.
“Leave go,” she commanded.
The grooms holding the stud broke and fled, and Ranulf backed away, expecting her to immediately get thrown to the ground. With her grip on the reins, the black stallion could not bend his neck down far enough to buck with all his power, but what power he did have should have been enough to send her sailing through the air.